From Lorde to Macklemore, it’s a sentiment that’s galling for its popularity: white artists need to stop using the wealth signifiers of rap music to gesture at their self-important “anti-consumerism.” What Allen misses as she washes rims in a kitchen decorated only with bottles of champagne is that it’s not anti-consumerism when it only targets one type of consumer.
Rap owns a unique history soundtracking the triumph of financial success in a country that long barred black Americans from that success. It shouldn’t be an opportunity for white artists to wax superior. Beyond poor taste, it’s the myopia of latent racism that’s more anxious about gold chains on a rapper than an Armani tie on a hedge fund analyst.
Similarly, Lily Allen’s response to sexist industry demands for thinness becomes entirely ineffectual when it lashes out against women who succeed despite those demands. Allen is not savily critiquing the world of Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines” and Miley Cyrus, she’s resentfully bemoaning not getting to enjoy the same success.
“Hard Out Here” is the opposite of Mileywave. Instead of using black women as props to further her career, Allen blames them for its stagnation. In full-sleeved dresses Allen mocks her inability to twerk amidst women of color in body suits who launch into exaggerated dance moves, licking their hands and then rubbing their crotch. Her older white male manager tries to get to her to mimic them. Meanwhile she sings, “Don’t need to shake my ass for you/‘Cause I’ve got a brain.” Cut to black women shaking their ass, so much for sisterly solidarity."
If you only read one take-down of Lily Allen’s shitty new music video, make it this one.
— Margaret Atwood, Cat’s Eye (via thefuryofovershoes)
— Enough With The Open Letters: Let’s Talk About Appropriation And Race by Renee Martin (October 9th, 2013)
MARGARET ATWOOD to me for the spring ish of BULLETT.
You better read.
AND THIS IS WHY MARGARET ATWOOD IS BOSS.
dans la seuil de la porte.
…today i dressed as though winter were over; as though i cared about this holiday everyone keeps talking about regardless of their sentiments towards it. the kitsch factor is irresistable, though, so i dig up the stained dress i never wear, with a bow-so-girly, so sweet; the opposite of what i feel i am these days. i take pretentious photos of myself alone in my house to try and get a sense of what i feel i am, how i want to frame/present/represent myself. project myself via digital digits-all on the internet. rumours about politics and “legitimacy” and sex keep knocking at my door and i put them all to rest, lay the cards on the table, finally. fuck ‘em, literally and figuratively, i suppose.
with her lips on the back of my neck i thought of his face. he asks me to be his love, his daily love, son amour quotidien, son amour de tout les jours. why am i so shocked by the idea that someone would want to make their life with me? frightened, even, by the idea that someone, anyone could want to (or want to try to) tolerate me for a lifetime. “le chat brulée par l’eau chaude a peur de l’eau même froide.”
quoi? “once bitten, twice shy” sounds so much nicer in french. he knows that my hesitation(s) have nothing to do with my love for him, but it is cumbersome nonetheless. perhaps i get away with a lot because there are words i don’t yet understand, and words he does not understand. he can remember youth, though, but it is hard to express that fear of the unknown to someone who has lived in the same city for fifteen years, the same apartment for nine, and one old lover for 8. spoiled is the only way i can think to describe myself these days. maybe it will come back and bite me in the ass in the not too distant future but at the moment it is blissful decadence. or naive. (probably the latter)
you ask me where i stand, and i show you.
15th-Feb-2008 12:32 am
tearing up re-reading things i wrote years ago. i forget these feelings come back every spring.